Michael Connelly: The Wrong Side of Goodbye

“Bella?”

She turned at the sound of his voice, saw Bosch, and managed a smile.

“Harry.”

He checked her hands for weapons. There was nothing.

“Bella, what are you doing in here?”

She looked back at Dockweiler.

“I wanted to see him. Face him.”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“I know. But I had to be. I’m leaving here today, going home. I wanted to see him first. Let him know that he didn’t break me like he said he would.”

Bosch nodded.

“Did you think I came to kill him or something?” she asked.

“I don’t know what I thought,” Bosch said.

“I don’t need to. He’s already dead. Kind of ironic, don’t you think?”

“What?”

“Your bullet cut his spine. He’s a rapist and now he’ll never be able to do that to anyone again.”

Bosch nodded.

“Let me take you back to your room now,” he said. “The nurse said the doctor has to see you before they can sign you out.”

In the hallway Bosch cut off the deputy before he could speak.

“This never happened,” he said. “You make a report and I report you for abandoning your post.”

“Not a problem, never happened,” the deputy said.

He remained standing by his chair and Bosch and Lourdes headed down the hall.

On the way back to her own room, Bosch told Lourdes about the offer from Trevino. He said he would only accept it if she approved and understood that he would drop back down to part-time reserve officer as soon as she was ready to return.

She gave her approval without hesitation.

“You’re perfect for the job,” she said. “And maybe it will be a permanent thing. I’m not sure what I’m going to do. I might never come back.”

Bosch knew that she had to be considering that she could easily and deservedly receive a stress-related out from the job. She could pick up her entire salary and do something else with her life and her family, be away from the nastiness of the world. It would be a tough choice but the specter of Dockweiler overshadowed it. If she never came back, would it haunt her? Would it give Dockweiler a final power over her?

“I’m thinking you’re going to be coming back, Bella,” he said. “You’re a good detective and you’re going to miss it. Look at me, scratching and fighting to keep a badge on my belt at my age. It’s in the blood. You’ve got cop DNA.”

She smiled and nodded.

“I kinda hope you’re right.”

At the nursing station on her floor, they embraced and promised to keep in touch. Bosch left her there.

Bosch headed back down the 5 to San Fernando to tell Trevino he was in — at least until Bella came back.

Along the way he thought about what he’d said to Lourdes about cop blood. It was something he truly believed. He knew that in his internal universe, there was a mission etched in a secret language, like drawings on the wall of an ancient cave, that gave him his direction and meaning. It could not be altered and it would always be there to guide him to the right path.

It was a Sunday afternoon in spring. A crowd was gathered in the triangle created by the convergence of Traction Avenue and Rose and Third Streets. What for years had been a parking lot was now taking shape as the first public park in the Arts District. Rows of folding chairs were lined in front of a sculpture twenty feet high, its shape and content only hinted at by the contours of the massive white shroud that draped it. A steel cable extended from the shroud to a crane that had been used in the installation. The veil would be dramatically lifted and the sculpture revealed as the centerpiece of the park .

Most of the chairs were filled and videographers from two of the local news channels were on hand to record the event. Many in attendance knew the artist who had created the sculpture. Some were meeting her for the first time even though they were bound by family ties if not by blood .

Bosch and his daughter sat in the back row. Harry could see Gabriela Lida and Olivia Macdonald seated three rows in front of them. Young Gilberto Veracruz sat between them, his attention drawn to a handheld video game. Olivia’s grown children were in the chairs to her right .

At the appointed start time of the unveiling, a man in a suit walked to the podium in front of the sculpture and adjusted the microphone .

“Hello and thank you all for coming out on this wonderful spring day. My name is Michael Haller. I am legal adviser to the Fruit Box Foundation, which I am sure you have all learned about through the media in the past few months. Thanks to a very generous endowment from the estate of the late Whitney P. Vance, the Fruit Box Foundation is dedicating this park today in honor of Mr. Vance. We are also announcing plans to purchase and renovate four historic structures in the Arts District. These will be dedicated live-work complexes offering affordable housing and studio space for this city’s artists. The Fruit Box—”

Haller had to stop because of the applause from those seated in front of him. He smiled, nodded, and then continued .

“The Fruit Box Foundation has additional plans for the area as well. More structures containing affordable housing and studio space, more parks, and more consignment galleries. They call this area the Arts District, and the Fruit Box Foundation — its very name tied to the creative history of this neighborhood — will continue to strive to keep it a vibrant community of artists and public art.”

More applause broke into Haller’s speech and he waited it out before continuing .

“And finally, speaking of artists and public art, we are very proud today to dedicate this park with the unveiling of a sculpture created by Vibiana Veracruz, artistic director of the Fruit Box Foundation. Art speaks for itself. So, without delay, I give you ‘The Wrong Side of Goodbye.’”

In dramatic fashion the crane raised the shroud, revealing a sculpture of shining white acrylic. It was a diorama like Bosch had seen in Vibiana’s loft the previous year. A multitude of figures and angles. The base of the sculpture was the mangled fuselage of a helicopter lying on its side, a piece of a broken rotor blade sticking up like a tombstone. From the open side door of the craft rose hands and faces, soldiers looking and reaching up for rescue. The figure of one soldier rose above the rest, his full body up and through the door, as if pulled from the wreckage by the unseen hand of God. One of the soldier’s hands reached with splayed fingers toward the heavens. From his angle Bosch could not see the face of the soldier but he knew who he was .

And standing next to the torso of the fallen helicopter was the figure of a woman holding a baby in her arms. The child was faceless but Bosch recognized the woman as Gabriela Lida and the mother-daughter pose of the photo from the beach at the del Coronado .

Deep applause greeted the unveiling but at first there was no sign of the sculptress. Then Bosch felt a hand touch his shoulder and he turned to see Vibiana passing behind him on her way to the podium .

As she turned up the middle aisle, she glanced back at him and smiled. Bosch realized in that moment that it was the first time he had ever seen her smile. But it was a lopsided smile he knew he had seen before .

All novels are the product of research and experience, some more than others. This book relied heavily on the help of others. The author gratefully acknowledges them for their contributions and for sharing their memories.

Many thanks to John Houghton, former Navy corpsman who served in Vietnam. His experiences on the Sanctuary and with Connie Stevens many years later became Harry Bosch’s experiences and the emotional core of the novel. Many thanks to Dennis Wojciechowski, the author’s researcher and a Vietnam vet as well.